


an evening, a night, and a morning

by deltaehm



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, enjoy, i got this idea literally on a whim and wrote this in one night, idk what other tags to fuckin do, my city now, theyre gay ur honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltaehm/pseuds/deltaehm
Summary: What Curt learns from being in the room from him is that he’s tall-- taller than he is, though, that isn’t extremely hard to manage. He smells like aftershave and hair gel, and when he swallows his Adam's apple bobs up and down like a buoy on the Hudson. He’s still sizing him up, it seems like, when he turns to shake his hand, smile confident, expression unreadable. What he learns from walking down the hall behind him is that his heels click louder than his on the linoleum. His suit is navy and shines under the fluorescents.this work is left intentionally unfinished.
Relationships: Cynthia Houston & Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour & Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. i make up things i would never say

It’s summer in New York City and hotter than hell. The air is weighed down by the humidity, so thick you could cut it with a knife, so heavy it drapes over your shoulders like a shawl. Curt knows a suit is professional, knows it suits him to look the way he does for this job, but damn what he wouldn’t give to be wearing anything other than this.

At least it’s nice-- a business suit, not the type you would get married in, though, Curt never took himself as the kind of man to get married. He had felt that way for a while. Wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married, have the white fence, the kids, the apple pie in the evening and coffee in the morning kind of life, just that it was unattainable. Out of reach. Different from those who simply chose not to, or by some mishap of God hadn’t found the one yet. It pulled at his chest, the difference.

There was a sort of kinship he felt with the men he saw in the obituaries in the paper. He found it hidden in the words written under their names. “Never married”. He could laugh; kinship with a dead man. 

(He knew it was more understanding than he would be met with if men, alive, knew why his ring finger was left unoccupied.)

The suit, though, the damn suit, it trapped the heat in, under his skin, almost. He’d kill for a breeze-- in fact, he should be rewarded one for everyone he’s taken down in the past, he thinks. Men he’s killed. Thinking about it too much makes his stomach roll, hits him like someone’s punched him in the nose. Dazed and reeling. He was sixteen when that first happened to him. Head snapping back, having the wind knocked out of him, the taste of iron. Damn near lost his front teeth, too. 

He remembers the face of the boy who did it. Blonde hair, curly, with big, dark eyes. Strong jaw, sharp, perfect smile. Real trust fund kid, kicker for the football team, wrestler in the winter. Piece of work, but... beautiful.

The jacket is smooth and gray and the fabric softly swishes against itself as he walks. The heat radiates back up at him from the concrete that his shoes click against. It beats down on him from above, too, and he worries a moment he’ll melt before he reaches where he needs to go, however irrational that thought is. Absently, he reminds himself of the directions, mapping everything out in his head, even though he doesn’t need to. It’s insurance, at this point. Not much further to go.

He’s due for a new assignment. Hopefully it sends him somewhere cool, or shielded from the August sun, but beggars can’t be choosers. Can’t be choosers at all in this profession, really. You take orders, pick up a file, reload your gun and shoot. Of course, it’s never that easy, but it feels remarkable, the recoil of a handgun sending shockwaves up through your hands and into your arms. It feels like a shot of adrenaline, the muzzle flash burning into your eyes and leaving a memory of itself in your vision, like staring into the sun.

Curt wonders what he looks like when he thinks about that sort of thing. He’s always been a bit easy to read, his face conveying what he feels half the time if he isn’t actively helping it. Used to get asked by the teachers if he was upset while he was working, deep in thought. He never was, not really, just focused. He wonders if he retained that into adulthood-- stern, unwavering eyes and set jaw, furrowed brow.

He wonders a lot of things that he doesn’t know the answer to.

Before he knows it, his hands wrap around the door handle to the building, which is refreshingly and invitingly cold to the touch. A wave of crisp and air conditioned air hits him in the face as he steps in, greeted by the chirping voice of a secretary.

“Afternoon, Nan.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mega,” the secretary replies. Nan Jacobsen had been there since he could remember. She had hardly changed a bit, by some miracle, the same perfect brown hair, the same grey eyes and smile lines, the same string of pearls around her neck every time he saw her. She was sweet, a credit to the agency, and could work her way around a typewriter better than anyone else he had met. “Miss Houston just called for you. She’s waiting.”

Curt smiles, though it's a bit tight. “Wondering why I’m late again?”

“I’m sure she is,” She replies, sympathetically. Her fingers twirl the cord of her rotary phone. “I told her your appointment wasn’t for another five minutes, but she just told me what she always says.”

“Right, right,” Curt sighs, making his way to the elevator. “To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, I know.”

Nan gives him a sorry looking smile as he presses a button and steps through the metal sliding doors. They close behind him, and before they do, he watches her slip a paper into her typewriter. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the clicking of the keys, rather than the elevator going up and up and up.

There’s a flat chime as he reaches the floor, concrete replaced with linoleum, the lights humming around him. He always wished this hallway had windows or something to make it less foreboding, though, perhaps it was so foreboding because he knew what was waiting for him at the end of it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Cynthia, he really did-- she was strong, knew what she wanted, didn’t mess around. She had her way of doing things and stuck to it. He appreciated that. No, he liked Cynthia well enough, but admiring someone doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid of them.

He thinks about the boy who punched him in the face. He admired him. Was he terrified of him?

The door to her office opens and shuts and he’s hit with a few things, in quick, abrupt succession. Cigarette smoke being one of them, an exhale hitting his face as soon as he steps through the doorway, burning his eyes. The second thing is that mouth it came out of is swearing and hollering over the phone to some poor man or woman, he can’t tell-- he’s more focused on getting in and out with as minimal damage to himself and his facilities as possible. 

The third thing is that, surprisingly, he’s not the only other person in here.

Of course, that was to be expected to some degree. Cynthia’s informant is usually accompanying her, which makes three of them, but there’s a fourth, today. He looks just about as shocked as Curt feels, eyes wide, brows arched. There’s something about him, something unplaceable, as he stands there, trying to regain composure, already sizing Curt up like he’s an opponent entering the ring.

The phone in Cynthia’s hand is shoved back onto the receiver with an amount of force that causes both him and the stranger to jolt and look to her. Her burning cigarette is still balanced between two fingers, the smoke choking out the lights above. At least, it feels that way.

“Finally,” she spits, and turns in her chair to stand, but not before opening the drawer beside her and producing a piece of gum. “Do you know how damn long we’ve been waiting for you?”

Curt looks dumbly at her-- no, not at her, but at the white piece of gum balanced expertly between the back of her tongue and her molar and she speaks, takes another drag, and then chews. “Um,” he produces, reduced to monosyllabic responses, as he usually is at the beginning of these visits.

The man beside him stares over the top of Cynthia’s head. It’s almost funny.

Cynthia’s gaze narrows, but doesn’t continue on her tirade like she would usually. It throws him for a loop, and he’s tempted to ask why she doesn’t but he knows how the conversation would go: ‘Do you want me to tell you you’re late?’ ‘No…?’ ‘Then why would you fucking bring it up?’ 

The conversation can stay in his head for now, he supposes. Instead of chewing him out, she chews her gum, and explains who the other man is.

What he learns from that conversation is that his name is Owen Carvour, and they’re being assigned to each other as partners for a few missions. He’s an MI-6 agent from overseas, one of their top men. This is his first mission with the Secret Service, at least out in the field, so he isn’t to fuck it up.

What Curt learns from being in the room from him is that he’s tall-- taller than he is, though, that isn’t extremely hard to manage. He smells like aftershave and hair gel, and when he swallows his Adam's apple bobs up and down like a buoy on the Hudson. He’s still sizing him up, it seems like, when he turns to shake his hand, smile confident, expression unreadable. What he learns from walking down the hall behind him is that his heels click louder than his on the linoleum. His suit is navy and shines under the fluorescents.

They’re supposed to get to know each other before their assignment. It’s a funny thing, that is, but it’s policy-- at least for Cynthia. Partners in the field work better if they know each other outside of it. Learn how the other walks so you can step in his shoes. Curt does the only thing he knows he can do with confidence and takes him on a tour of the city the next day.

“So, you’ve never been to New York before?” He asks as they walk. The sun is shielded by a few clouds, but the sky's still blue, inviting. Not as hot as the day before, though, Curt isn’t sure whether or not to blame that on the weather or the outfit.

Owen, besides him, shakes his head. “Never,” he replies, and God, his voice makes him reel like that punch to the nose. It’s unexpected, but inviting. He finds himself hanging off of every word. “I don’t remember ever coming to the states.”

“Well, you came to a good one to get started with,” Curt says, arms sweeping in front of himself. “We’ve got everything and the kitchen sink.”

Their footsteps are synchronous with each other. He can hear them over the noise buzzing around them, glimpses of their feet moving in his vision as he looks around. They line up perfectly for a brief moment, for what feels like an eternity, but when he looks down to see them, they both fall out of step.

Funny how that goes.

The lulls in their conversation feel like that weight of the humidity from yesterday. Curt feels like he’s trying to play both sides of a card game, fill two roles when he can only be one, be faster than himself and still manage to have the wit to outsmart the opponents move. It’s a dance where he has to lead and be led, trying to make an impression of being impressed and impressive.

“I’d say what I want to see first, but there’s so much to start with,” Owen finally says, though it’s only been a mere moment. “You know the city better than I do.”

Curt’s eyes alight with excitement. He almost, in a moment of blind instinct, reaches for Owen’s hand, but his reach doesn’t go far. Instead, he tilts his head, urging him to follow, hoping that when he turns back to be sure he doesn’t disappear.

He takes him into the heart of the city, passing through Central Park, pointing out museums and navigating him past cabs and the bustle of businessmen and tourists. They stop a few places, and make a final stop before the sun sets, overlooking what would be an ice rink if not for the time of year.

“Rockefeller Center,” Curt says, walking over to the railing. His hands curl around it, and Owen’s do the same as he moves to stand beside him.

Owen has the same look on his face as he did when he first met Curt, sizing up the golden statue in the center, surrounded by fountains. His lips part to say something, but they close before words can leave his mouth, and Curt wonders what thoughts could be hidden behind them. He wonders before turning his attention away from his lips, knowing he shouldn’t be looking, even though he wants to.

“Prometheus, isn’t it?”

Curt blinks, caught off guard, then nods. “That’s right.”

There’s another silence. A breeze passes through, cold, rippling the fabric of Owen’s shirt, carding through Curt’s hair like hands dunked in cold water.

“I always thought that story was a bit sad.”

The breeze slows, and the world seems to come to a stop, the chatter of other people around them dimming down, for just a moment.

“Why’s that?”

“He only wanted to do what he thought was right. He loved humanity and wanted them to have something when they didn’t have anything, so he stole fire for them, and was punished for it.” His face is still unreadable, eyes trained on the golden statue before them. The soft crashing of water can be heard from even that far away. “It just makes me think, if you did something like that, if you did something like that for someone you loved, if you knew you would be punished for it, would you still do it?”

Curt tries to parse what Owen means by that. He thinks about the boy with the blonde hair and the fist to his nose. He thinks about the boy’s hands on his cheeks and their lips colliding together moments before. 

“Are you asking me?”

Owen makes a noncommittal sound. “If you want me to be.”

Curt doesn’t respond. He looks over the railing back to the statue. He wants to look at Owen, but he doesn’t.

“How about we get a drink?”

Owen smiles. It's softer than it was before, back in Cynthia’s office. “Lead the way.”

They sit next to each other, whiskey in clear, crystal glasses on the bar in front of them. Outside, night settles over the sky like a blanket, and Curt thinks about the way that navy suit from yesterday matches the color of the dark. The way the threads reflected the lights above them then like the stars that are beginning to illuminate it.

They talk, and laugh, and it’s nice, how they click together. How Owen loosens up a bit, how he rolls his eyes like he doesn’t think Curt’s jokes are funny, even though he’s smiling. How his hair falls over his face as it moves out of where it had been swept back. It’s almost like they’re on a-- no, he won’t say that, won’t think it. Even though it feels like it is one.

A man sits next to Owen and offers to buy his next drink, and he accepts.

Later, after the night is over, Curt asks.

“Why did you let that man buy you a drink?” They’re illuminated by a streetlight, the cold biting at Curt’s exposed arms. “Aren’t you afraid people will think… that they’ll get the wrong impression?”

Owen doesn’t look at him. He stares straight ahead, then up, up at the tall buildings, the metal reaching for the stars, millions of miles away.

“I’m not one to turn down a nice offer, Curt.” His voice is steady, but the tone is the same as when he was staring into the eyes of Prometheus, considering fire, and love, and punishment. “Whether it makes people think of me one way or another isn’t my concern.”

Nobody else is around to hear him say this. He hails a cab and leaves Curt halfway in the dark, half illuminated by an artificial, golden light.


	2. i say them very quietly

The mission leaves Curt shaking and dizzy and high on adrenaline. The briefcase is in the backseat of the car, and both men are far away enough from danger that they can relax, shoulders slack and breathing evening out some. Curt has a grin on his face he isn’t sure he’ll be able to wipe off for some time. His hands are lazily holding onto the steering wheel, the feeling of his pistol still brushing against his palms.

Beside him, Owen sits in the passenger seat, head tilted back. It’s dark, late at night, as these things often go, but every now and then a light will shine through the windshield, casting shadows on his face. The moon and her stars are hidden beneath a thick layer of clouds. Curt opens his mouth to say something, a congratulations or something of the sort, but he doesn’t.

“Would you light me a smoke?”

Owen fumbles with his pockets before pulling out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and passing it to Curt.

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t peg you to smoke,” he says, not bothering to put either object back into his pockets, instead letting them sit in his lap.

Curt puts the cigarette in between his teeth, taking a slow drag before blowing it out, cracking the window some. “I don’t, usually,” he says, the taste of tobacco sitting on his tongue like a stain. “Just need to stay awake.”

Owen hums in what Curt hopes is understanding. That’s what he figured out, after their last meeting, that everything with Owen is hoping. Hoping for understanding, for appreciation, for a laugh or smile, for… something. For things he isn’t sure he should be hoping for. But where would he be without it? Without hope? Stranded, is one thing. Hoping is something else he shouldn’t be doing so often. Hoping and wondering, but then again, there are worse things to drown yourself in. You could drown yourself in whiskey, or despair, or cynicism, though, some say hope leads to some of those things. Hoping someone will come back, or will admire you, or give you a raise. Is it foolish? Maybe, but Curt never seemed smart enough to stop doing foolish things. At least, he thought so.

Owen was a foolish thing. Owen was a foolish hope, he knows this. He knows it like he knows how his favorite jacket hugs his shoulders, or how his mother sounds over the phone, or the smell of cigarette smoke. He knows it, and still, something inside him tugs at him to pursue it, to say something, to do something before it’s too late. Even if he’s wrong, if it was as bad an idea as he keeps trying to tell himself, he can always request to never work with him again.

If it isn’t a bad idea, though?

...He’ll get there.

He takes another drag from his cigarette as thunder ripples through the air above them, from one side of the sky to the other. Then, later, a crack of lightning sweeps through the sky, and Owen snaps to attention as the light fills the sky before sitting back again.

“Spook you a little there?” Curt teases, lightly, tapping his cigarette on the edge of the window before closing it. Beside him, Owen laughs, looking out the window.

“Just a bit.” 

There’s more silence and the sound of the road beneath them for a long stretch of time. Curt finishes his cigarette and tosses the remains of it into the cupholder with a sigh. The embers are still glowing.

He thinks about Prometheus. Thinks about fire, thinks about stealing something because he loves someone else. Thinks about being punished for it, and knowing that the difference between him and Prometheus is that he knows the punishment. He knows the rules to this game by now. He’ll play his cards out to the end. Every action he takes for love is stolen. Every action he takes is a punishment waiting to be doled out.

Thunder ripples over the sky again, the storm drawing nearer. Lightning strikes again, thin and unpredictable as it hits the ground, and the image of Zeus hurling them towards the car flashes through Curt’s head. Irrational as it is, he waits with held breath for punishment.

They’re almost to the city when the storm hits in full force, rain pummeling down in sheets, traffic at even more of a standstill than usual. The wipers are working so hard Curt’s worried they’ll fall off, but takes a moment to look at the illuminated buildings through the thick sheen of rain on his window.

“Look outside,” he says, voice quiet beneath the rain, and Owen turns his head to look out the window, then cranes it to get a better look. The city looks like a painting, almost, even more unreal if he unfocuses his eyes, everything all colorful and hazy and strange. When he turns back to look back forward, he can see Owen has his hand on the glass of the window, staring. Beside himself, he smiles.

There’s a few more stretches of silence, accompanied by heavy rain, before Curt speaks up again. They’re moving, but slow, and even if they could make it to where Owen was staying, he wouldn’t be sure if the rain would have let up, or if he had an umbrella. Maybe it was selfish to want to ask, but he had been worse than selfish tonight, so he figured he could pull one last horrible act out of himself, if it was even horrible at all.

“Why don’t you stay at my place tonight?”

He can hear Owen blink, turning away from the window with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s pouring,” Curt supplies, gesturing around them with one hand. “You don’t need to walk in this garbage, I’m sure you’re exhausted. Don’t need another thing against you tonight. Besides, where have you been staying, one of those hotels? I can’t imagine it’s five star material.”

Owen gives him another unknowable stare, something Curt’s sure he’s the master at. “I don’t think… I wouldn’t want to--”

“You can say no,” He cuts him off, turning back to the windshield. “But... you did say you weren’t one to turn down an offer the other night.”

Time seems to freeze as Owen considers his answer. Curt simply continues to stare ahead, navigating the road as best as he can, grip significantly less slack on the wheel. His chest is tight, nervous, and for a moment he’s afraid he's misjudged severely, that everything he thought he was seeing and hearing was only because he wanted to, and that it really wasn’t as it seemed. Here was the fire, in his hands, hot and impatient.

“...If you’re sure.”

Curt almost sighs in relief. “I am.”

“Then I will.” They’re both looking forward to the city, made unknowable by the rain. “Thank you.” 

“Of course.”

It’s a while before they make it back to Curt’s apartment, but not long enough for any conversation to start. They drive in quiet, and though it isn’t heavy, it’s apparent, present. It still hangs around them when Curt pulls into a garage and asks for Owen to find the umbrella in the backseat. It’s there when they bump shoulders while walking to the door, under the safety of the dark, and when Curt unlocks the door, letting Owen in.

The light flicks on and they both breathe out a sigh. Owen shrugs his coat off and hangs it off the wall, shaking off the umbrella outside before closing it and the door. 

“Thank you, again,” he says, voice soft. “I didn’t really realize how bad that rain was until we were out in it.”

Curt laughs, hanging his jacket beside Owen’s. “Yeah, me too.”

They stand in the doorway before Curt gestures for Owen to come further inside, which he does after slipping off his shoes. His hair is a bit wet, small strands stuck to his face, taking away from his professional appearance. Curt finds it almost a bit endearing.

He offers Owen a change of clothes, but he refuses, even though he’s soaked. Then, he offers him a warm drink, and he accepts, graciously. He almost apologizes, because he knows that it isn’t going to be very good, no matter what he attempts, but he bites his tongue and starts the kettle on the stove, taking a seat across from where Owen had situated himself at the table.

“You did good, tonight,” Owen says, which takes Curt a bit by surprise. “They told me you were good, but you know how sometimes they say things…”

“So you didn’t believe them?” Curt teases, and Owen rolls his eyes with a scoff.

“I did believe them!” He folds his arms. “Just… sometimes, things are too good to be true. But you aren’t.”

Curt doesn’t have the time to think about what that could mean. Doesn’t have the time to think of a witty response, because it knocked him so far off his feet so quickly. He barely registers that he hasn’t thanked him, and he does, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Too good to be true. When was the last time he had heard that? He knows he doesn’t mean it in the way he wants it to, but it could. Maybe.

The kettle whistles behind him. Curt pours the water into a mug and picks a few bags of tea from the cupboard before setting the cup down on the table beside him. He doesn’t think he could handle handing it to him. The flavors left unchosen are piled back up and put back in the cupboard. He sees out of the corner of his eye Owen holding the mug in both hands, letting the steam warm his face as the tea steeps. Something small that might go unnoticed if he had his back turned just a bit more.

When he sits back down, neither of them say anything, worn out and tired and thinking. Owen tries to take a drink every now and then, but the tea is hot, and it’s not good for much other than warming his hands until it cools a bit more. Curt goes through his options, looking out the window at the rain, still coming down in sheets. Thinks of things to say. Doesn’t say them for now. For now, he waits, trying to look anywhere else other than the man across from him.

He ends up asking when the tea is cool enough that steam no longer rises out of the cup. He’s staring at the grain of the table when he does, heart pounding.

“...Are you…”

The words die in his throat. Owen looks at him with a raised brow and a nervous look.

“Am I?”

Curt swallows, hard. “...I think you know what I mean.”

They’re both silent. Both of their eyes trained anywhere else but each other.

“If I am,” he starts, voice barely audible. “What would you say?”

Curt thinks about Prometheus again. He thinks about Achilles. Icarus. He thinks about the men who came before both of them, who hid, who are still hiding. Who were and are the same.

“I would say that makes two of us.”

Owen exhales, looking up from the mug, half full. His smile is small, but it’s there. “I hoped so.”

The rest of the night is slow, quiet, accompanied by rain. Dark and hazy, soft. Owen finishes his tea and leaves the mug in the sink, and assures Curt that he can sleep on the couch, but Curt insisting he sleep in the bed, and then Owen refusing to let Curt not sleep in his own bed. It’s a half-hearted back and forth, an argument neither of them are aching to win, and in the end, they both end up in the same bed.

The lights are off and everything is dark and both of them are alone. Alone, together. Both knowing a secret about the other that nobody else may ever know, that they won’t tell another in a long time. Two of a kind, where nobody can see them, where they’re safe, for a moment. Where there is only rain, still torrential, and quiet, and the other breathing beside them.

If the punishment is coming, Curt thinks, he hopes it doesn’t come tonight.

When he wakes up, the jacket beside his on the hook is gone. The rain has stopped, and light streams through the curtains. For a moment, a bleary, brief moment, he thinks maybe he had dreamed it all.

But.

The bed beside him is still warm, the mug is still in the sink, and the faintest memory of a gentle hand brushing hair out of his face and resting on his cheek hums in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2! the chapter title finishes out the richard siken quote.
> 
> i purposely left this fic "unfinished" because i think it speaks a lot about their relationship and queer people in history. feeling like your story is unfinished, and how theirs literally was in the show, i feel like that feeling of knowing there could be more but isn't sings true to that. thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> chapter one! chapter title is a richard siken quote.


End file.
